


Conceived in Love

by LitRaptor42



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Gen, Postpartum Depression, Swan Jones Baby - Freeform, parenting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-17
Updated: 2017-10-17
Packaged: 2019-01-18 18:58:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12394173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LitRaptor42/pseuds/LitRaptor42
Summary: Canon-compliant (at least for now) oneshot in which Killian and Emma discover that their baby has a congenital disorder/disability and Emma has a difficult pregnancy + PPD. Daddy Killian angst and lots of tears, but a happy ending. Title is from "Danny's Song" by Annie Murray.





	Conceived in Love

He knew he would be nervous. He had accepted that he would be a bit hysterical at times. Hell, he’d even anticipated being frightened: Emma might be one of the strongest women ever to live, but that didn’t make her any less fragile or mortal. And pregnancy, Killian Jones knew, was one of the most dangerous conditions for a human being to live through.

What he didn’t expect was the feeling of sheer, shocking helplessness that came with being the father to a child that was already ill before it was born.

* * *

Emma’s pregnancy was as normal as could be expected for the first few months. Killian hovered and fussed and pampered her until she confessed that he needed to back off, that he was driving her mad. There was so much to worry about, though: vitamins, exercise, diet, and trying to assuage her aggravation at the absence of coffee in the house. It was all delightfully domestic, and with a chipper Mary Margaret in his ear the whole way through, Killian thought he might come around to the idea that everything was going to be fine.

But toward the end of the second trimester, a new discomfort and pain grew bad enough that Killian took it upon himself to drive Emma up to Bangor and to a special women’s clinic.  The small crowd of chanting protestors outside was disconcerting, but Killian hustled his wife through the group without much trouble. 

Inside it was warm, with pastel-colored walls and cheery drawings, and the staff were equally comforting, soft-spoken and direct. They were ushered into a small room for an ultrasound. Killian stared at the screen in awe, looking at the grainy little black-and-white image of his own child, gripping Emma’s hand. The marvel of modern technology never grew old, and he found himself faintly wondering if this was how Robin had felt about his little girl.

There was a faint blipping noise, and Killian’s stomach lurched as he realized it was a heartbeat. “I’m not seeing anything too unusual so far,” the doctor said with a smile, her hand moving with deft, tiny circles as she slowly moved the blunt wand across Emma’s gently rounded belly. Killian exchanged a relieved look with his wife; her mouth was pressed tight, her brows furrowed into that faint line of pain with which he’d grown uneasily familiar. 

“Have you been told the baby’s sex yet?” the woman added, glancing back at them.

Emma mutely nodded, not even looking at Killian this time. They already knew it was a girl, and Mary Margaret was worked into a tizzy over decorating the nursery in all shades of the rainbow. The doctor made a  _ hmm  _ noise and turned her attention back to the machine. She’d introduced herself earlier, but Killian couldn’t remember her name.

“And you said the pain has been localized up high, towards your belly button?” the woman asked. Emma nodded. “Any other symptoms? Nausea, fever…?”

Emma took a deep breath and nodded again, her hand clenching on Killian’s. For a moment he desperately wished he’d worn the hook, appearances be damned; the stuffed black glove worked well enough at times, but he knew she preferred hanging onto something solid when she was worried. “Both, actually. I think my temperature was a little over a hundred today,” she admitted. “And I haven’t been hungry at all lately.”

The doctor frowned. With two fingers, she reached up and gently pressed on Emma’s belly. The reaction was instant; Emma groaned and closed her eyes, clenching her jaw. 

The woman muttered a curse and moved the ultrasound wand to that spot.  _ Jefferson, that’s her name _ , Killian suddenly remembered: the same as that odd hatter fellow whose daughter had gone to school with Henry.

“Emma, have you ever had your appendix out?” the doctor asked carefully, and reached over to turn off the ultrasound.

Killian watched as his wife’s eyes went wide, her lips parting a little. She shook her head. “Okay. So, it might be nothing,” the doctor said, soothing, and patted Emma’s arm. “It might be belly gas or bloating. Sometimes that’s really painful towards late term. I want to rule out appendicitis, though: the organ tends to move during pregnancy, and it looks a little inflamed to me. Do you have a hospital in your town?”

Emma’s hand was shaking, and she said nothing, her jaw working. “Aye, we do,” Killian said evenly. “Should we head back there now?”

The woman smiled at him. She was older, nearly Granny’s age, with soft wrinkled hands and kind dark eyes. “Not immediately. I’d like to do a blood test and an amniocentesis so we can test for fetal abnormalities, too,” she explained. “But after that, yes. I’ll write you a referral to for your local prenatal unit. Hopefully it will be covered by insurance. Does that sound okay?”

There was a moment of silence; then Emma let out a long, shuddering breath. “Okay,” she said, and swallowed.

* * *

Killian was ushered out for the procedures that came next; Emma told him later that it was just as well, since one had involved an enormous needle and she’d cried.  He spent his time fetching the car from the garage and met her outside the clinic, fighting off the urge to punch a few of the protestors, their sneering righteousness like splinters under his skin.

His wife’s pain turned out to be appendicitis in its early stages, after all, and Killian spent several hours sitting in the waiting room of Storeybrooke General, bouncing his knee and hopelessly trying not to fret. His in-laws turned up at one point, their daughter strapped to David’s chest in a sling while little Neal clung to his hand, Mary Margaret toting a cooler full of sandwiches and snacks. Killian tried to eat, but his stomach felt like a kettle on a hard boil.

“Don’t worry,” Mary Margaret said more than once, patting his hand. She tried to smile at him, dark eyes creased. “Emma will be better off without an appendix, anyway.”

Killian couldn’t answer her, his jaw stiff and painful from being clenched all day. He knew the rudiments of the human body, but this was the first time he’d even heard of an appendix. Thinking back to his days on the sea, he wondered in disbelief how many men he’d lost to diseases that could have been cured in a day, had they been in Storeybrooke.

He took Emma home the next day, his head filled with dire warnings of rest and lack of stress and staying off her feet. He served her meals in bed and offered her his arm every time she rose, until she grew restless and cranky and shooed him out of the house. “David needs a damn deputy,” she said irritably.

He’d all but forgotten about the clinic tests by the next week. Emma had gone over to her mother’s house for some kind of childbirth-related class - it had to do with breathing, was all he could remember - when the phone rang.

The voice, that of an unfamiliar male nurse, rattled off a few pleasantries. Killian waited, his heart hammering. “But we think we’d like to have you and Ms. Swan come back into the clinic for a brief talk,” the man said at last, not unkindly. “There were a few results from the amniocentesis that we’d like to discuss.”

“Like what?” Killian demanded. He stuck the phone between his ear and his shoulder, and scrabbled for a pen and paper. He might not know what any of the words meant, but he could certainly copy them down for Emma to read later.

But the man dithered and prevaricated, saying something about patient privacy and not wanting to divulge over the phone. Killian ground his teeth, but agreed and picked a date.

Before he knew it, they were back in the clinic again. It was a weekday this time, early morning, and no protestors were out yet, the streets clean and deserted under a soft pink sunrise. Emma wasn’t quite waddling, yet she moved slowly, gripping Killian’s arm and breathing hard. He’d made her go to bed early the night before: the stitches from her appendectomy were still causing her pain, and although her appetite had made a return, everything seemed to upset her stomach.

This time they were escorted to an official-looking desk, behind which Dr. Jefferson sat, her eyes still kind but her face now deadly serious. Killian stared at the posters on the walls as the woman handed over a few sheets of paper and explained about nervous systems, about prenatal surgeries and complications. She kept using a classical Latin phrase that made it sound like his daughter’s spine was splitting in two. He could see that Emma’s hands were shaking, the pages trembling in them like yellow leaves, but the blood was rushing in his ears and he couldn’t ask why.

“We can’t do much more testing at this stage, and I want to assure you that this won’t cause any immediate risk to you. But I would strongly recommend that you come into the city for the birth so you have immediate access to our specialists in the NICU,” the doctor was saying. Her look was now one of pity, a glint of pathos that Killian almost hated. 

She cleared her throat, seeming to steel herself, then continued in a soft voice. “There’s also the possibility of termination. In this state, you have about three or four more weeks.”

The salient word seemed to catch on the woman’s lips, and fire rushed up through Killian’s veins. “Termination?” he repeated icily, each syllable like a little dagger on his tongue.

Then he looked at Emma’s face. Her eyes were blank, her lips trembling. He felt dizzy just to see it. “Emma, you… do you…?” he asked, his chest constricting with grief, and found himself unable to finish the sentence.

She’d told him enough about this world: that women were given a right to choose, that they’d fought and clawed to have control of their own bodies, and that as a result they lived longer and had far less dangerous pregnancies than in his world. It all sounded wonderful... but the idea of Emma deciding on such an option right now made him want to get on his knees and beg.

She shot him a look, her eyes now so blazing hot and horrified that he almost choked. “No,” she said fiercely, eyes glimmering, and her hand tightened on her belly. “Absolutely not. This is our baby girl, Killian. And if she might live, there’s no way.”

Relief crashed through him like a cool wave. He lifted her hand to his lips to kiss it, lacing their fingers tightly as tears pricked at his own eyes; her gaze softened again as she saw his distress.

The doctor was giving them a tight little smile, and he sniffed once, trying to compose himself. “Is there anything else we can do?” he asked desperately.

“We just want her to be happy. And to provide her with the best life possible,” Emma added quietly, her voice breaking. Her tears had finally fallen, streaking her cheeks.

The doctor nodded, and offered a box of tissues. She folded her hands and gave them one last smile. “And I’m sure you will. I’ll have them provide you with some literature on the way out, and I’ll give you a referral to the neonatologist here in Bangor so you can discuss next steps.”

The protestors were outside again; only a few this time, mostly elderly. But they had set up signs that made Killian nearly faint with disgust and horror, enormous boards bedecked with dismembered fetal remains and gore and Bible verses.

“Think of your ba-by! Think of your ba-by!” a tiny woman was chanting, waving a sign with one of the same ugly photographs on it. 

Killian felt Emma tear her arm away from his hand. He watched, stunned, as his heavily pregnant wife walked over and lifted her foot to kick over one of the standing sandwich boards.

“I’m here for  _ prenatal  _ care!” she screamed at the frozen protestors, tears dripping down her face as she gestured to her own plainly pregnant stomach. “Our baby might  _ die _ no matter how much they help me, and you’re out here pissing and moaning about this place just because they do other stuff, too? Go  _ fuck _ yourselves, you hypocritical assholes!”

Realizing what was about to happen, Killian leapt forward and managed to grab his hysterical wife’s arm before she could strike the nearest protestor. He hustled her away; and when they were at a safe distance he clutched her to him as she sobbed, stroking her hair and whispering in her ear.  

“It’s going to be all right, love,” he said over and over again, tasting the desperate truth on his tongue each time. “You’re going to be all right, and so will the little one.”

* * *

She was the smallest baby Killian had ever seen.

He stared at his child, pink and fragile as a bird beneath the plastic shell they called an ‘isolette,’ her head covered in a soft lavender cap that matched the socks on her miniature feet. His own feet ached from having stood around all day, in waiting rooms and the operating room and finally Emma’s hospital room, while they waited for a nurse or a doctor to return and give them  _ some  _ kind of news.

Emma was finally asleep, having trailed off mid-sentence from pain and grief and sheer exhaustion. He’d left her with her parents and had wandered down the halls, wanting only to find their child. 

He pressed his hand to the cold glass window that separated him from the NICU unit as if he could touch his little girl, and wondered now if his wife was dreaming - if their baby was dreaming, too.   _ Find each other _ , he thought faintly, thinking of his in-laws.

“Hey,” said a soft voice to his left, and Killian turned to see his father-in-law, as if summoned by power of thought. 

David gave him a singularly sweet smile, then opened his arms. Killian didn’t even think; just returned the embrace, clinging to the other man’s solid warmth and wishing irrationally that his own father had been like this, unpretentious and loyal. There was a lump in his throat that wouldn’t seem to go away.

They parted at last, turning to look into the room once more. The hall was silent and dark except for the faint bleeping of machines and hushed, echoing conversations down the hall. Killian watched as a nurse came into the unit and made her way around the cribs, checking on the children. There were only four babes, two of them buried in mounds of machinery and tubes. His daughter had a few tubes of her own, and was the only babe lying face-down rather than on her back, but he could still see her tiny pink cheeks and delicate wrists, and the pinpoint of fingernails at the end of her tapered fingers.

“She’s so beautiful,” he whispered, his vision suddenly swimming.

David chuckled, and patted his shoulder, letting his hand rest there. “The most beautiful sight in the world,” he said quietly, his tone perfectly serious.

It was the confident voice of a man who’d already brought three children into the world, and was de facto uncle and babysitter to several others. Killian wondered how many diapers his father-in-law had changed over the years - not Emma’s, of course, but those of a son and another daughter, both of them fat and ruddy and healthy. Killian had never felt envy or jealousy for the other man; just a wistful longing that someday he might have as much joy in his life.

And with that, the floodgates inside him let loose so strongly that Killian nearly wheezed with fright and grief. That was his tiny girl in there: perhaps not struggling for her life at the moment, but alone and so pitifully small under the soft lights that he couldn’t bear it. Neither he nor Emma had had a chance to so much as touch her yet, let alone feed her or bathe her or cuddle her. A nurse had simply told them that the surgeries had gone well, and that the paediatric surgeon would come by to discuss their daughter’s condition when Emma was a bit more recovered from her own horrifying surgery, what they’d called a cesarean section. They didn’t even know if their daughter would ever breathe on her own, or talk, or walk.

“I just - David, I… I didn’t even know a babe could  _ be _ so small,” he managed to stutter. The tears obscured his vision and the sobs took him.

He was gently led by the shoulders backwards, away from the window, until his legs touched a chair and he sat, almost fell, into it. David said nothing, just sat next to him and tightly held his hand as he cried, silently trembling and gasping for breath.  It all came out: the worry of the last few months; the terror of knowing  _ nothing _ in this world of machines and computers; the self-doubt and fright at being a father; but also the relief that their daughter had lived. That she was alive - and that he and Emma were parents now.

When he finally regained himself, panting and leaning against the other man, his only thought was how grateful he was that his poor exhausted wife wasn’t here to see this. They were silent for a long time, just sitting and looking through the glass. Killian wiped his face and slowly got to his feet.

“I suppose I should go check on Emma,” he said dully. “I don’t want her to wake up and think I ran off.”

David laughed softly and stood beside him. “She won’t think that,” he reassured.

Soft footsteps came from the end of the hall, and Killian glanced over to see the same nurse who’d been inside the nursery, a chubby older woman with glasses and a pleasant wide face. She stuck her hands into the pockets of her scrubs and paused in front of them. “Are you fathers?” she asked, and tilted her head toward the window.

“This one is,” David said cheerfully, and lightly slapped Killian’s shoulder. “The Swan-Jones girl is his daughter.”

“Oh, congratulations! She’s a stubborn little sweetheart,” the nurse said warmly, smiling. “Are you here to go in and see her?”

Killian’s breath hitched, his stomach wrenching. “You mean I can…?” he asked breathlessly, gesturing to the window.

The woman’s brows shot up. “Oh, sure!” she answered cheerily. “I take it you haven’t gotten a chance to talk with the social worker today. Well, I guess it’s pretty late, she usually has daylight hours. But yes, of course - if you want to go in and see your little one for a bit, I’ll just have you put on a gown and wash up. Very important for moms and dads to bond with their new babies, you just have to be tidy about it.”

She seemed to be half-talking to herself, but she had already turned away, beckoning Killian after her. He shot a wild glance at David, unsure if he should go pelting down the hall to fetch Emma, too.

But no: his wife was asleep, and she needed plenty of sleep given all she’d been through in the last few hours. And David appeared to feel the same.  _ Go on _ , the other man mouthed, making a shooing motion and grinning. 

A few minutes later, he was awkwardly shuffling across the tile floor of the NICU, clad head to toe in blue fabric and holding his raw-scrubbed hand away from his body to keep it clean. He felt large and clumsy and foolish and contaminated. Wasn’t he supposed to be wearing one of the silly face masks to cover his mouth and nose?

The nurse didn’t seem too concerned. She stopped by his daughter’s crib and reached inside, delicately moving aside a wire or two. Then she turned to him, eyes sparkling behind her glasses, and used her foot to pull over a stool. “So. Usually mommies and daddies like to hold hands with their baby, or stroke them,” she explained. “You can’t hold her outside the isolette just yet, but it’s good for her to hear your voice, if you’d like to talk to her or sing to her.”

Killian could hardly breathe, staring down at the tiny infant with rapture. There were two circular holes in the sides of the plastic shell, and he slowly sat down on the stool and reached inside one.

Her little palm was just large enough that he could slip his finger inside, and he choked back a sob as those tiny fingers slowly, instinctively closed around his. He gazed at her face, unable to summon a single coherent thought as his eyes traversed her long lashes, resting against her cheeks, and the fluttering of a vein in her temple. 

She was  _ perfect _ .

His heart swelled painfully, and he wished Emma could be here. “Your mummy loves you, darling,” he whispered, a smile growing across his face. “And I love you, too. Your father loves you.”

Carefully he swapped his finger for his thumb within her grasp, and stroked her tiny arm. Her skin was so soft under his fingertip, plump and smooth and like nothing he’d ever felt before. She was still breathing through a tube, and there was a thick swatch of bandages on her lower back, but the regular rise and fall of her miniature chest somehow relaxed him. They’d been so afraid to lose her that they hadn’t even chosen a name. 

“How could we be so foolish?” he murmured to her, still grinning like an idiot. “You’re a survivor like me, lass.”

He glanced over; David was standing at the window, his arms folded, beaming. Killian nodded his head down toward his daughter, and the other man cheered silently, raising his fists and giving Killian a double thumbs-up.

Killian laughed softly and looked back to his daughter, sleeping peacefully, legs splayed bonelessly on the white mattress. He stroked her arm again, humming one of the lullabies Emma loved so much, the one with horses and butterflies. A soft, small joy was beginning to bleed through his chest, warm and tingling. A child born into their ruddy, loving, absurdly hopeful family? She was going to be just fine.

* * *

The front door slammed just as he was securing the second strap to her diaper. “Hello, love!” he called over his shoulder.  Nettie burbled and spit, and Killian laughed, bending down to brush his nose against hers in an Eskimo kiss. 

“Yes, Mummy’s home,” he told her. She gave him one of her wide, gummy grins, and grabbed for his nose. He let her have it, making a face and shaking his head lightly to make her giggle again.

There was no response from Emma, so he reached for a onesie and slipped it over his daughter’s fuzzy head, then expertly wove her arms through it and buttoned the bottom over her diaper. He hadn’t worn his hook for the first couple of weeks after bringing her home, terrified of accidentally piercing her fragile skin: but then David had made the practical suggestion to simply file down the end. Now he regularly sanitized the metal curve, so the baby could gnaw on it to her heart’s content, and often detached it from his wrist just for that purpose. 

He picked her up and cuddled her to his chest, sighing and rubbing at the aching small of his back. She’d been a handful today, crying and whining all through the morning, and wiggling like a fiend during her consultation with the orthopaedic surgeon. He’d tried to go grocery-shopping with her in the Boba wrap, but had ended up leaving early with little more than milk and eggs, his teeth on edge from her constant wailing.

The last couple of hours had been blissful, though. Killian had removed her onesie and sat with her practically glued to his bare chest as they rocked in the recliner, absently watching a documentary on housecats and singing to her as she babbled, her fat lips smacking just below his collarbone.

He went out into the living room now and glanced over to see Emma in the kitchen, her back to him, silently setting up the breast pump. “Hey, love,” he said, with a smile. “Perfect timing. You don’t need to bother with that - she’s due for a feeding.”

Emma paused, motionless. Then she let the machine fall to the table with a clunk. “Okay,” she said tonelessly.

Killian bounced their daughter for a moment, uneasy, waiting for her to turn. His wife had been tired and quiet lately, sleeping even more than usual, and not for the first time he wondered if she’d gone back to work too soon. “You all right, darling?” he asked carefully.

“Fine,” she said flatly, and let out a heavy breath. Turning, she trudged toward him, half-heartedly holding out her arms. He winced, able to see damp stains on both of her swollen breasts.

Killian handed over the baby, and hustled to the cabinet to find a burping cloth as she settled into the recliner. Nettie had been hard to feed at first, fussy and apt to fall asleep halfway through; now she ate voraciously, and as a result was putting on weight like a small elephant (much to her parents’ delight). 

“Did you have a bad day?” he asked Emma, handing her the cloth and trying to sound as diplomatic as possible.

It didn’t work. “Stop asking me questions, please,” she said sharply. She grimaced as the baby latched onto her breast, letting out a long breath.

Killian waited for a moment, then retreated to the bathroom. He absently fingered one of the diapers sitting on the changing table, and reached into the cabinet to find some medication. She’d been having terrible headaches, so he tucked some Tylenol into his shirt pocket, then picked up her breast moisturising cream and left.  

Re-entering the living room, his breath caught in his throat. Cranky and tired she may be, but Emma always looked beautiful to him, especially when she was nursing, her face turned down to gaze lovingly on their baby. He moved slowly across the room, watching as she stroked the babe’s fat cheek with a finger. And it was then that he noticed the redness of her eyes, the tear slipping down her own cheek.

Quietly, he set the moisturiser onto the coffee table and sat on the couch nearby. Antoinette’s small hand was splayed flat against her mother’s free breast, her fingers clutching like tentacles. Killian said nothing, his heart fluttering with nerves.

“Sorry I snapped,” Emma said at last, quietly, and glanced at him.

He shrugged. “It’s all right, love. I should know by now that you need a minute when you first get home.”

He reached out and stroked their baby’s head, straightening the unruly light locks. They’d spent hours pondering who she would take after. The odds seemed fairly good that her sparkling eyes would stay blue, or perhaps fade into green; but with all sorts of hair colors on either side of the family, the debate still raged on that front. Killian secretly hoped that his own mother’s red hair might still make a showing; he remembered very little of her, but had faint memories of running his fingers through lovely coppery curls.

“It’s not just that. I…” Emma began, then stopped, her breath hitching. She craned her neck to kiss the baby’s forehead, sniffling. “I’m tired  _ all _ the time, Killian,” she admitted, regarding him with dull eyes. “And the other day I caught myself-”

She broke off again, biting back a sob. Killian saw her shift, and got up to help her switch the baby from one breast to another. After a moment, the girl’s mouth went slack, milk dribbling from her lips as her eyelids ever so slowly fell shut. “Come on, slug,” he said softly, and gently pinched Nettie’s arm. “Finish your meal, then you can nap.”

As he’d hoped, it made Emma giggle, if a bit hysterically. She swiped at her nose, sighing. They were silent for a while longer. 

Then she explained, “I just keep having these awful thoughts, you know? Like, maybe it’s my fault. I took vitamins and laid around like a beached whale for the last few weeks and tried to follow all the rules, but somewhere along the line, I still could have fucked up. Maybe I was just… never meant to be a mother.”

Her tone was exhausted and full of woe. The dark circles under her eyes alarmed him. Another tear slipped down her cheek, and Killian reflected how much weight she’d lost just since they brought Nettie home from the hospital. Of course, she’d gained quite a bit of weight during her last trimester, and Mary Margaret had (rather defensively) assured him that such seesaws were normal. Still, he knew it had made Emma miserable to feel overweight, and that she’d spent the last few weeks fighting to get back down to her previous size. 

He moved forward to kneel on the carpet in front of her, and set his chin on her leg. “Emma, my beauty. Would you rather I speak aloud, or shall I just be silent and try my best to cuddle you into the belief that you’re needlessly worrying?” he inquired, quirking an eyebrow at her.

Emma snorted, and ruffled his hair, her fingers combing back through his scalp as if he were a cat. “A pep talk would be nice, I guess,” she admitted, and sniffled again.

Killian straightened up, and reached for the moisturiser, working off the cap. “Good. First of all,” he said in a matter-of-fact tone, and scooped out a dollop of the cream, “the word ‘fault’ implies that a wrong exists, or that something unfortunate occurred. Which is not the case. Our daughter is perfect just as she is. She might, perhaps, face a few more challenges than the average little girl, but she’ll have that in common with her parents.”

He reached up and gently applied the cream to his wife’s breast, careful to circle her poor cracked nipple with a light touch. She bit back a moan of relief, letting her head fall back onto the chair. 

“Second,” Killian continued, continuing to gently rub, “You did everything right. I  _ promise _ that you did. You were the most conscientious expectant mother to ever live, and as a result, our small pig is lying in your arms suckling your poor breasts raw, just like any other babe might.”

Emma’s mouth curved in a crooked smile, her eyes closed. “Monster baby,” she murmured in agreement.

“Aye,” Killian said, laughing. “Should have heard her wailing at the supermarket today. I thought me eardrums were going to burst, and everyone kept giving me dirty looks.”

His wife broke into a wide smile then, shaking her head. Killian wiped his hand on his sweatpants - what the hell, they were already filthy - and reached up to swipe the tears from Emma’s cheeks. He tried to speak again, but the words stuck in his throat, and he had to inhale deeply before he could make them come.

“Last but not least, my dear, I think it might be time for us to swap places,” he said softly. 

Her eyes popped open at that, and she stared at him with wide, astonished eyes. “But...” she blurted, then bit her lip.

Killian smiled at her, swallowing in an attempt to bury his sorrow deep within. She had been in terrible pain for the first several weeks after Nettie’s birth, recuperating from her own surgery and struggling with deep depression. He’d done his best to help her bond with the baby, half-carrying her into the NICU to sit by their daughter’s side. But she’d found it much more difficult to be intimate with the child than he did. While Killian had seized every opportunity to hold Nettie outside her crib (he’d been ecstatic the first time the nurses had let him try ‘kangaroo’ bonding), feed her, and sing to her, Emma had mostly sat in silence, watching him and leaking tears.

Even after they’d been allowed to bring the baby home, his wife was tentative, as if she were terrified of harming Nettie, and had let Killian take the lead on changing the baby’s pathetically tiny diapers, caring for her surgical wound, inserting and removing catheters, and repeatedly measuring her head. And two weeks ago, when David had cautiously suggested that Emma might be able to resume some of the lighter duties around the sheriff’s station, she’d leapt at the chance, pinning on her badge with eager fingers.

But now Killian was beginning to realize what a colossal mistake he had made by assuming that his wife was satisfied with her choice. “I can’t imagine your state of mind, love,” he explained quietly. “Even above and beyond the pain you’ve been through, you must be missing Henry dreadfully. For God’s sake, he’s not even my son, and I miss him.”

He huffed a laugh, then added wryly, “Regina, too. For all that we bickered, sometimes I wish I could call her in the middle of the night and ask how not to lose my mind during all this.”

“God, yes,” Emma muttered. Her eyes were shimmering with tears again, but at least she was smiling.

Killian took another deep breath. “But you love our daughter, and please believe that you really are a wonderful, affectionate, caring mother. I’ve just had all the fun with her for the last few weeks, I haven’t had to miss a moment of it - so I think it’s your turn. I don’t want you feeling lonely or left out any longer. And I think your staying home a bit more would reassure you that her condition’s nothing to be frightened of. Hell, neither of us know any better, so as far as I’m concerned, everything to do with her disorder is just a normal part of raising an infant.”

Emma was silent, her lips trembling. Nettie had been slowly falling limp again, her little fingers curling, and suddenly her mouth came free from her mother’s nipple with a slight pop. Emma slid a hand behind the baby’s head and lifted her up onto her shoulder, patting her small back with firm half-slaps. 

Killian reached up and adjusted the burping cloth just in time; Nettie let out an astonishingly loud belch, then sank to her mother’s shoulder, milky drool oozing onto the cloth.

He watched as his wife tilted her head and placed a tender kiss on the baby’s cheek, swallowing. She glanced at him, eyes hooded and guilty. “But what about you?” she asked, her voice breaking. “Killian, I… I’ve never seen anyone who loves their baby as much as you do.” She rolled her eyes and waved her free hand. “Well. Okay, maybe my parents, but they’re so lovey-dovey, I wouldn’t be surprised if they fart rainbows.”

“They don’t,” Killian said confidently. “Your mum’s farted around me several times, and I assure you, her flatulence is no more impressive than yours.”

Emma giggled, making a face of disgust. “As for me, I’ll adjust,” he added. “We don’t have to swap everything immediately, and I’ll talk you through all the doctors and appointments and special things, so you needn’t feel lost. I just…” 

He sighed and trailed off. “You want me to spend more time with her,” Emma said at last, softly.

Killian nodded, smiling. “I do. I really, really do.”

She gazed at him for a moment, her head slightly tilted. Then she leaned forward, eyes tender; Killian craned his neck and pressed his lips to hers, tasting the salt of her tears. “I love you so much,” she murmured, and kissed him again.

They laid the baby down for a nap, lowering the lights and turning on the lighted mobile so that small fish and ships were slowly circling over her crib. Killian took his wife’s hand, and together they tiptoed back into their bedroom.

“Dinner won’t take long to prepare,” he said, urging her onto the bed, “and we could both use a lie-down. If you want to whisper anything private in my ear while I’m sleeping, or pretending to sleep, now’s the time.”

Emma opened her mouth, then closed it. She sighed and sank onto the comforter. “Promise you won’t bring any of it up later, or try to fix it?” she asked wistfully.

Killian smiled. “Promise.”

So they laid for nearly an hour, spooned tightly beneath the covers, his arms wrapped around her. Killian did fall asleep once or twice, just for a few moments, but only when she wasn’t talking. And she talked quite a bit, her voice hitching as she described how she hated the narcotics she’d been prescibed, but couldn’t stop taking them; how she’d hardly been able to speak with her mother about Nettie at first, too irrationally angry and fixated on what Mary Margaret had admitted so long ago in the Echo Caves; how she felt undesirable and sexless and torpid and incapable; and how Archie might be useful when it came to counseling her for magical problems, but was a useless sod when it came to talking about an aching abdomen and swollen, painful breasts and postpartum depression.

Killian just laid and listened, letting her shake and cry in his arms, offering her nothing but the comfort of his embrace. Sometimes she spoke too softly for him to hear, and he knew she was talking about the babe.

She didn’t thank him at the end, when they finally rose from the bed and shuffled into Nettie’s room to wake her. Killian didn’t want thanks, though, and he certainly didn’t need it. He watched as Emma lifted their daughter from the crib, and grinned to see the little girl babble and reach for her mother’s necklace, her chubby fingers closing around the silver ring and yanking with astonishing strength.

The thought of eventually pinning on his deputy’s badge and leaving the house without his daughter was awful, a freezing chunk of trembling nerves lodged beneath his breastbone. But as they cooked dinner together, passing Nettie back and forth, making little jokes and padding around the kitchen barefoot, Killian knew in his heart that a future with their special baby, their darling, their Antoinette, wasn’t anything to be afraid of.

**Author's Note:**

> Just to make sure it's clear: little Nettie has meningocele-type spina bifida. If you'd like to learn more about this disorder, the SBA and NINDS are good places to start. Thanks for reading!


End file.
